Shadows
by transporttherest
Summary: The streets have been dark and lined with shadows ever since the death of John's best friend, Sherlock. Soon enough, the old army doctor begins to loose his seemingly firm grip on reality. But is it really madness or another thing entirely?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't claim to own anything, just the plot junk.**

**Disclaimer Numero Dos: This is my first fanfic ever, so please forgive me for the crappy quality and bare with me. This is definitely a work in progress. Reviews/advice would be awesome.**

**Note: The break means a perspective change.**

****_One month gone; Day 1_

John stumbles along the darkened alleyway , a soft orange light casting shadows across the walls of the weathered buildings. The limp is back, the cane in hand, each step he takes sends a sting of pain up his leg. A grimace is spread across his worn face, the shadows of the alley accentuating its creases. It's common place now for the old army doctor. Grimacing, limping, taking to the alley ways to keep out of the public eye. After the first week or so, he had quickly grown tired of the constant whispers and pitiful stares that came from strangers, passersby. "Look, there's that doctor who always followed around that Sherlock guy." "Who?" "You know the guy who jumped off that building 'er somethin'." "Oh right, that poor man's a widow, just look at 'im."

It grew very old, very quickly. So here he is now, walking down the alleys Sherlock and him had so often sprinted through in pursuit of some cab, drug lord, or murderer, hiding. It's been common place ever since the fall.

* * *

><p>He slips seamlessly, silently down the alley, following behind the limping man before him. Keeping his distance. Keeping quiet. Slinking around corners, hidden by shadows. It's been this way for over a month. Had it really been a month? Crucial time, ticking away. He's too absorbed in watching the man ahead, the tip of his shoe knocks into a rusted steel garbage can. The clatter is loud and resonating. He swears under his breath as he presses his wiry frame against a damp wall, hidden by shadows. The sound of his heart beating is loud in his chest. The man <em>can't<em> see him.

* * *

><p>John whips around, his soldier senses coming back to him, if only for a moment. He adjusts his stance and wields the cane as if it were a mighty sword. His blue eyes dart around the dark recesses of the alley, scanning the abyss. "Who's back there?" he calls into the darkness, voice echoing off the walls. No response. "I know someone's out there. I'm not... mad." The slightest hesitation. "I'm not imagining things." Still nothing. John releases a deep sigh and begins turns back forward, but something stops him.<p>

He turns quickly on his heel, frantically trying to see what is no longer there. "Wha-" His eyes flicker across the shadows. It's odd, he could have sworn he had seen something. No. Someone. John had clearly seen an unmistakable shadow. Curling hair, long coat with a popped collar, thin, musicianly fingers. He blinks. Nothing. "But, I know I saw..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't claim to own anything, just the plot junk.**

**Disclaimer Numero Dos: This is my first fanfic ever, so please forgive me for the crappy quality and bare with me. This is definitely a work in progress. Reviews/advice would be awesome.**

**Note: The breaks are perspective changes. And the days are going to skip around.**

**I'm not really that pleased with this chapter, but here it is.**

_One month passed; Day 8_**  
><strong>

_Grey sky. A typical London day. Head turns up, cocked slightly to the right. A figure on the roof, coat billowing behind. A buzz. He reaches into his pocket, head still tilted upward. The cold feel of the gently scratched phone is present against his ear. A choked voice comes on the other end, sobs hidden underneath the deep baritone voice. "This is my note, John. Goodbye." One yell, in his voice, though his mouth doesn't seem to move. "Sherlock!" The figure jumps, coat flowing out behind him, the black wings of a lost angel. "No!"_

John Watson jolts awake, a cold shiver creeping up his person, sweat drenching the nape of his neck, making his shirt stick. His breathing is shallow, his heartbeat rapid.

The room is dark, but hints of a bright morning are peeking in through his thick pea-green curtains. He hears a faint creak from the loosened floorboard in the corridor outside and freezes for a moment. "Mrs. Hudson?" Silence. Slowly, John pulls off the white duvet which had been sprawled across him. He swings his legs over the side of the bed; they hit the ground with a gentle, quiet thud. Toward the door he goes, careful to avoid the particularly creaky floorboards, his head craned toward the door.

A turn of the doorknob, clockwise, slowly. He pulls the door open, careful to not make a sound, and peeks his head around the doorframe, looking for someone he doesn't see. A sigh of relief escapes him. '_I'm just imagining things. Still a bit strung up from last night.'_ "Coffee then. Yes, I need coffee."

* * *

><p>He steps out the front door of 221 Baker Street, closing the door gently behind him. The thin, nimble fingers linger on the tarnished, but still golden, doorknob. His eyes scan over the door. Small scratches toward the bottom. <em>Drinking. Cane in use.<em> A subtle frown spreads across his face. 'John.' His gaze moves down to the small stoop. _Faded yellow paint. More supporters. 'Believe in SH.'_ The man turns on his heel and moves away from 221 Baker Street, fading away in the crowd of London ordinaries.

There's no longer a long, grey tweed coat billowing behind him. No popped collar. A weathered, black leather jacket has taken its place. The long brown curls that had been constantly present, bouncing and twitching at his every move are gone. Dyed a lighter, almost ginger colour, cut short, and gelled up towards the front. Somethings never change, however. The pale complexion. The long, thin fingers. The piercingly pale blue-green eyes. The calculating mind.

None of the silly normals would be able to tell him from any other pedestrian heading off to some meaningless function. No one would ever think anything of the flitting eyes, flashing over everything. Taking in everything. _Striped tie. Cheap tie-clip. Could easily afford something better, judging by the suit. A banker._ He can still see everything but can say nothing. _Frazzled hair. Poorly done nails. Large coffee. Massive backpack. Aspiring actress. Not doing well. _All he has is a silent, personal appreciation of his prowess.

A cycle quickly set in. Walk. Search. Follow. Sleep. The final part was often optional._'Dull.'_

Sherlock Holmes is very much the same underneath the costume change. An actor playing a character. He is not a complete leading man without his supporting actor, but he had to make due. John simply can't know. Can't join him in the show. Not yet. Not for a long while.


End file.
